


Pre Past Prologue

by Xenobotanist



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Awkward Boners, Awkwardness, Humor, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, mostly canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenobotanist/pseuds/Xenobotanist
Summary: What if there was a little bit more to the story of when Garak introduced himself to Bashir?-OR-I'm awkward, Julian is awkward, and getting lost inside your head is awkward.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Pre Past Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the dining scene comes straight from S1E3. I don't claim any artistic credit for those lines.

_This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening._

It was happening.

***

Dr. Julian Bashir had heard rumors of a lone Cardassian that remained on Deep Space Nine after the occupation ended. Some Bajorans hinted that said Cardassian was a spy, one Mr. Garak. He had a shop where he posed as a tailor, but no doubt carried about secret and shady business in between sewing and stocking inventory.

Julian’s foremast passion was medicine. There could be no higher calling than helping the less fortunate, whether by healing wounds or curing tragic diseases. But his secondary passion was holoprograms, especially ones with a spy theme. He loved the adventure and intrigue, the mysteries and conquest. The life of a secret agent seemed so alluring. It brought to mind all sorts of interesting notions. Words like _clandestine, espionage, subterfuge,_ and _nefarious._ The possibility of meeting a real spy in the form of this Mr. Garak was delicious.

When he wasn’t busy building up his very own—albeit in shambles—infirmary, Julian researched the famous (infamous?) Mr. Garak. Predictably, there was more hearsay than actual fact available. He didn’t need his enhanced brain to separate truth from fiction.

Fact: His tailor shop was called Garak’s Clothiers.

Gossip: He was a cousin of Gul Dukat.

Fact: He was 1.78 meters tall, not much shorter than the doctor.

Gossip: He had a tail. 

***

The station hadn’t recovered from the Cardassians’ exodus yet, so there wasn’t a lot to do during down time. Julian created his own diversion, with the theme of “What would I do if I were a spy?” He scouted out the station’s corridors, looking for shady nooks, dead ends, and maintenance closets that could be used for surveillance or concealment. He snooped around, eavesdropping on conversations. He sat at the bar, pretending to wait for a contact with vital intel.

In his room, he studied detailed maps of the station, particularly a certain shop on the promenade. Occasionally, rarely really, he’d glide past that location and sneak a gander inside. Of course, Mr. Garak’s actions always appeared innocuous: arranging dresses, hemming pants. But one never new. There might be an encryption device hidden under the counter, a deadly syringe concealed among the needles.

One particular evening, Dr. Bashir became lost in his thoughts—as he was wont to do—and had become quite involved in a convoluted spy drama of his creation. Standing at the window in a deserted viewing chamber, the story unfolded. A voluptuous woman with long blonde hair was holding a data rod. It had all the information he needed to bring down the world’s most _nefarious_ villain yet. The blonde placed said rod seductively down the front of her low-cut, red sequined dress and raised an eyebrow at him. He strolled forward and-

“Ahem.”

Julian just about jumped out of his skin. There was someone next to him! Where had they come from? He hadn’t heard anyone enter. True, he’d been somewhat distracted but-

Oh god. It was Mr. Garak. The spy. He too, was looking out at the endless expanse of stars.

“I’m here. Do you have it? I can only assume by the bulge in your trousers that it’s somewhat larger than you indicated.” His eyes were still facing forward, but his head was tilted, and his mouth was clearly smirking.

Yes! Right here, right now, there was something _clandestine_ happening, and he was witness to it. Some sort of illegal device or information was about to be exchanged.

But no. Oh no. Here he also was, standing next to a stranger, an exciting, possibly dangerous stranger, with a raging erection.

His original train of thought derailed, plummeted into a ravine, and disintegrated in a fiery explosion. His brain stuttered, tried to start, failed. There was only one thing to do, to say.

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.”

He bolted.

***

Once he made it to his room, Julian attempted to console himself. Thanks to replicators, there was no need for him to make use of a tailor’s services. And certainly, seeing as Bajorans and Federation citizens alike had no love lost for Cardassians, Mr. Garak would make himself scarce most of the time. If he had need of the infirmary, a nurse could treat him. Likely, he’d never see the man so close again.

Julian was wrong.

He’d been having a quiet lunch a few weeks later when a gray, ridged face bloomed out of the corner of the doctor’s eye. He appeared to be looking for someone. Julian glanced down, trying to think invisible thoughts. He pretended to peruse his padd and take a casual sip of tea, but couldn’t stop himself from looking up.

He froze, feeling someone behind him. He glanced up and to his left, and found the gentleman standing there, looking down at him. _!!!_ was all his brain provided. The stranger just stood there, staring intently with piercing blue eyes. Something in the back of Julian’s mind (very far back) wondered if he was about to be propositioned.

_This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening._

It was happening.

“It’s Doctor Bashir, isn’t it? _Of course_ it is.” How did Garak know his name? (Did he remember his encounter with Julian?) “May I introduce myself?”

“Uhhh,” was his pithy response. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“My name is Garak. A Cardassian by birth, obviously. The only one of us on this station, as a matter of fact. So I do appreciate making new friends whenever I can.” The unwavering eye contact felt similar to a cobra hypnotizing its prey. Julian tried to formulate a response as his unexpected guest seated himself, but found it unnecessary. “Now, you _are_ new to this station, I believe.”

 _He’s been studying me!_ “I-I am, yes.” He tried to compose himself, bringing his hands up in a cultured and nonchalant position under his chin. But the long, bending leaf of the centerpiece got in the way, poking him, and he tried to sweep it aside. How mortifying. “Though…though I understand you’ve been here quite a while.”

The Cardassian looked delighted. “Ah! You _know_ of me then.” Julian’s pulse leapt and he clenched his legs under the table. He quickly changed topics, determined not to let it slip that he’d been spying on the spy. He looked at the table for inspiration. “Would you care for some of this Tarkalean tea? It’s very good.”

He completely missed what the tailor (spy!) said next, as he suddenly realized the only tea on the table was his, and he couldn’t just share _that._ He looked around the restaurant, put his hand up to signal a waiter…but there wasn’t anyone in sight. Attractive and intelligent, Julian was. Suave and sophisticated he was not.

But he rallied himself. He could do this. And it was a little exciting. “You know…” _Think!_ “Some people say that you…you remained on DS9 as the eyes and ears of your fellow Cardassians.” Why had he said that? Superior brain, his shapely buttocks. Not in social situations.

But Mr. Garak didn’t seem phased. “You don’t say!” he responded. “Doctor, you’re not intimating that I’m some sort of _spy_ , are you?” He leaned forward and looked earnestly into Julian’s eyes. Maybe too earnestly?

Bashir’s mouth was dry. But he found his voice. “I wouldn’t know, sir,” he got out shakily.

“Ah. An open mind. The essence of intellect.” Mr. Garak tilted his head a little, immediately reminding Julian of their first encounter. But he didn’t refer to that. “As you may also know, I have a clothing shop nearby, so if you should require any apparel, or simply wish— _as I do_ —for a little bit of enjoyable company now and then…I’m at your disposal, doctor.” The tailor’s proximity and tone came across as downright flirtatious. Maybe he _was_ referring to that evening.

Not sure what exactly was being said (or implied), Julian came up with as polite and bland a response as he could. “You’re very kind, Mr... Garak.”

The Cardassian looked abashed. “ _Oh_. It’s _just_ Garak. Just plain, simple-”

“Garak.” They said it together.

And just like that, the conversation was over. “Now, good day to you, Doctor.” Garak stood up to take his leave, although his gaze never left his companion’s face. Julian looked away first. He took a deep breath and reached for his tea.

A jolt shot through him as a cool, dry hand cupped his shoulder, the other slowly coming to rest on the other side, near his neck. There were so many signals shooting through his body that the messages were unintelligible. The only clear perception was a subtle scent, of sand and secrecy. “I’m so glad to have made such an _interesting_ new friend today,” said the voice behind him. One hand squeezed gently. The presence remained a heartbeat, two more, and faded away.

His earlier embarrassment forgotten, Julian’s adrenaline surged: 2 parts nervousness, 1 part anticipation, and all parts aflutter. The spy had sought him out. The spy wanted to get to know him better.

It was _perfect_.


End file.
